Varric's Rejected Chapters
by An Extremely Agitated Hedgehog
Summary: In his years of hanging with the Champion and the Inquisitor, Varric has acquired a lot of stories. So many, if fact, that he simply couldn't fit them into any of his works. A series of vaguely connected oneshots with wildly varying themes.
1. Intro

Intro

 _Hello everyone! Welcome—or alternatively, welcome back if you've already been following me—to my new fanfic. I'm sure some of you are probably disappointed that this is not more Hetalia, and I_ am _sorry, I did promise you all more of it, but I'm all Hetalia-d out at this point after writing a whole freaking_ novel _off of just one tiny aspect of it—yeah, all of_ history's _canon to Hetalia *tears*._

 _Anyway, shortly after I finished_ Stars _, I kind of had the rest of the summer to goof around on the computer, so I came across a new obsession, which is, of course, Dragon Age, if you couldn't already tell. I do apologize to those of you who already follow me and have no idea what this DA crap is, but all of you should really just play it. Even if you don't like video games, just play it! It's basically like watching an interactive TV show. Oh, and do start with the first game,_ Origins _, because it's really great even if its graphics are shite and all of the mage armor looks like ass._

 _But I digress. One of my favorite aspects of fanfiction is getting to take all of those Noodle Incidents—humorous or otherwise—that the characters mention and running away with them. Of course, these don't make very good multi-chapter stories, so I've decided to write a series of semi-connected oneshots based on all of those little stories that don't often get told. I tried something similar with_ Portal _a few years ago, but didn't get very far, mostly because I was also kind of writing a screenplay—also of_ Portal, _for those of you who are interested—at the same time. Those of you who have been following me know that there's no way I can work on two big things like that at once. However, before we get started, I just wanted to write a little intro to be clear with what exactly you're likely to find inside so you know right away if this story, oneshots, thing, is your cup of tea._

 **Just what is this thing, anyway?**

 _I kind of had this idea to frame all of these oneshots in the context of Varric's stories that he's writing down and telling people, because if you have a canon storyteller, you might as well use him. That being said, I also hope to include some stories from_ Origins _, before he was introduced. I have devised ways to explain how he knows everything within the context of the story, but some of it might remain unexplained. Just go with it._

 **How knowledgeable of the Dragon Age canon are you?**

 _I've played the first two games and all of the DLC for each, and am about halfway through_ Inquisition _as I write this. I haven't read any of the novels—yet—nor have I read the comic trilogy. I intend to remedy these things very soon. I_ have _read the first_ World of Thedas _volume, but not the second one, as I was afraid to spoil_ Inquisition _. I tend to strive for canonity in my fics, so if I get some aspect of the world or someone's backstory wrong, please politely inform me so that I may correct it._

 **Multiple universes give me a headache. Which one are you using?**

 _I'm not going to use the "Bioware" canon necessarily because I don't know the whole of it—Does anyone? The canon is going to be based on my own playthrough, but I'm trying to go with the general consensus of the fandom in terms of world state. Things you need to know: Alistair is king, but he's not married to anyone. Bethany died (Hawke is a mage) and Carver is a Gray Warden. All of the companions from II are still alive, which includes Anders. All other details will be revealed as the stories are told. If I'm missing any of the really big decisions, just let me know and I'll stick 'em in._

 **What are these oneshots going to be about?**

 _I'm going to try and include some random little stories from almost every character. A lot of them will be backstories or parts of backstory because I really like those things. The early chapters will probably have less_ Inquisition _stories until I get more familiar with the characters. DA II might get more than its fair share of stories because unlike the rest of the fans, it happens to be my favorite game in the series, at the very least where the characters are concerned. I know, begin the shaming. Bring in the torches and pitchforks and turn me tranquil because I have committed blasphemy._

 **What about the PCs? Will they be included?**

 _I will probably use Hawke as a characters quite a bit because her personality tends to be more well-defined, but in regards to the other two heavily customizable main characters, I'm going to try not to focus on them as much as I can because I realize that everyone has a different image of these characters, and a lot of people will drop this story if they don't act like the readers expect them to in their heads. This isn't the fault of the readers; it's perfectly natural to have different opinions. I drop a lot of stories for this very reason. So I'm going to leave the "main characters" as vague as I can get away with. They will have to be mentioned somewhat, of course, so I'll describe their basics here:_

 _Hero of Ferelden: Female Human Mage, Amell._

 _Hawke: Female Mage, Marion Hawke, Humorous._

 _Inquisitor: Female Elven Bow-Wielding Rogue, Lavellan._

 **How about the other characters?**

 _As with everyone who has played DA, there are some characters that I like more than others. This might be because I think they have more interesting backstories, or I just like their personalities more, (_ _or I have a desperate need to get in their pants)_ _, or any number of reasons. That being said, I'm going to try to tell stories about as many of the characters as I can, but some of them are probably going to get extra love. Anders, Zevran, Isabela, Morrigan, all of these characters are liable to get more stories than the others. So, if you like the above mentioned faces, then you are in the right place. If you can't stand one or more of these characters, be warned._

 **What about the Shipping?**

 _Again, because multiple characters can be romanced in every game, people are going to have different opinions on ships. I'm going to try to focus on other things, but I'm positive that there will be at the very least one story I have planned that will involve a ship. Thusly, some ships may sneak in between the cracks. Fem!Hawke x Anders is a BIG one, as is Morrigan x Alistair, so just be warned. I'll try to leave warnings at the beginning of the stories that do involve ships, so you can skip any NOTPs._

 **Requests?**

 _If you have an idea for a oneshot, feel free to send it to me! I'd love to hear it. Just because you send it to me, however, does not mean that I WILL write it. If I like your idea, I might use it, I might not. But please do send me requests! At the very least, they might fuel other ideas. Generally there's no character that I don't like, so sending ideas about some of the characters I don't think about often (see my favorite characters list above) would be awesome. I also feel the same way about ships. There are one or two that I really don't like, and I won't do any NSFW (at least from requests), so please don't send me any overly kinky ideas._

 _Whoo! That was long. Thanks for sticking through it. I just feel like it's best to get everything out in the open so everyone knows just what they are about to read. And for those of you who are looking at this right as it's being posted, don't worry, I'm not cheating you out of a chapter this week. It'll probably be posted within the next ten minutes. See you then!_

 _~Hedgehog_


	2. Prologue

_Thank you everyone for getting through the long intro. I just felt like a I needed it to explain just what this thing is. I think uploads will be pretty regular, as they were with_ Stars _. Then again, these are oneshots, so there may be a few weeks with no story._

 _Anyway, I'm having a prologue, even though it's a series of oneshots, because this baby is what's going to tie them all together. So enjoy!_

* * *

Prologue

If there was one thing that Varric Tethras was good at in this world—besides murder, that is—it was his almost uncanny ability to weave a good story. He could construct a heart-stopping tale about absolutely anything at all. He had told tales of Kings and Champions, Apostates and Heretics, and whoever he happened to be telling them to at any given time would find themselves listening, enraptured, to that almost eerie quality of his voice, which rolled over their ears like the most peaceful waves on the sea. Hell, he could probably make drying paint sound like the most exciting thing to happen in years. Now why hadn't he tried that? He made a mental note to tell a story about paint.

He didn't really know how he had acquired this talent of his. When people asked, which they frequently did, he'd usually tell them how he'd thrown an old bone into a well and awakened the spirit trapped in there, who thanked him for freeing her by granting him one wish, and Varric, of course, asked for a silver tongue. He also described in great detail the process of fulfilling such a request when he was especially hammered, but he'd never repeat it while sober. It was all nonsense, of course, but when some of the more narrow-minded people he'd had to tell his story to accused him of lying, which they did frequently, he would simply wink and grin and give some sort of noncommittal response one way or the other, just to keep them guessing. He was only the storyteller, after all. He wasn't important in the least. The only thing that really mattered were the characters, real or fictional, who inhabited the worlds that he shared with anyone willing to listen, piece by piece.

But as is true with any craft, Varric's biggest critic was inevitably himself. Sure, he knew that he was good, that he could tell a kick-ass story, but he could always be _better_. Because no matter how hard he tried, there was simply something in his stories that never came out quite right. It was a constant source of frustration for him, a little sliver of a problem that was so tiny, and yet hurt like hell every time he brushed up against it. He called it the "Hero Problem".

The simple fact was that while his main characters were always fully conceived, interesting people in his head, the instant they were out of his mouth they became the exact same person: himself. Whatever name he gave them, whether they be human, elf, or dwarf, they all ended up speaking and acting just as he would if he was in that situation. He'd tried so many things. He tried telling stories about old people and beautiful elf children, delirious drunkards and buxom beauties. But still, they all became him.

He didn't _want_ to tell tales about himself. If he was honest, he wasn't really all that fond of Varric Tethras. If he had been someone else, he'd probably hate his guts.

Varric was, however, a slave to his craft. So what could he do but keep trying? Story after story he weaved until the wastepaper basket in his small room above the Hanged Man had overflowed with crumpled up bits of the stuff. Soon, he had all but given up. Then everything changed. It seemed as if the Maker himself—if he actually existed, Varric didn't often think _that_ existentially—was smiling down on him, because that was when he met Hawke.

She was perfect. Not in a creepy "worship the ground on which she walked" kind of way, because no one, except maybe Bianca, his beloved crossbow, was _that_ perfect. But from a writer's perspective, she really was the best heroine that he could have possibly asked for.

Hawke was pretty, though not beautiful by any means, and distinctive enough—especially with her odd habit of smearing red paint across the bridge of her nose—that you could tell who she was from a mile away. She also had flaws, realistic ones. She could be brash, and a little insensitive sometimes, and she rarely knew when to shut her mouth. But her heart was really in the right place. Tragic backstory? Check, very check. Dead father, dead sister, stuck in the lowtown slums after having to flee her home, yada yada. Best of all, she was the best kind of hero for _Kirkwall_. She usually did what was right, but was also hardened enough to know when to expect compensation for her "good deed doing".

And the best part? She was a _mage_. Worse yet, an apostate, which, if played at the right "sexy, tortured angle", her words, not his, could lend itself well to a brooding, terribly romantic heroine. The men would want to be with her, the ladies would want to _be_ her. Also pair her up with—take your pick—four friends with varying degrees of angsting problems and "Boom!" you had a story just waiting to be told.

Varric admitted himself slightly smitten. Purely from a writer's perspective, of course, and although he'd initially befriended her for admittedly selfish reasons—he had to get in observation time for his masterpiece, after all—he quickly found himself growing more and more attached to her and their ever-increasing circle of misfit associates. It was almost as if he was living in a story rather than writing one.

Oh, but these friends of theirs were a masterfully constructed rogues gallery if he ever saw one. The very loose pirate captain, the escaped Tevinter slave with a brooding problem, the stuck-up, noble-born archer, Hawke's brother, who seemed to have an issue with authority, the Dalish blood mage, the helpful healer with a secret, and, oddly enough, the captain of the guard, were all part of what you could very well call "Hawke's little party". They were a strange group; you could tell that much within the first five minutes in their presence, with wildly varying opinions on any topic you could think of. Putting them all together in a room almost guaranteed a fight to break out, or at least a very heated argument. Either that, or the most intense game of strip poker you had ever seen this side of the Waking Sea. Sometimes both. And the only person who seemed capable of holding it all together was Hawke. They were, after all, "Hawke's Little Party".

Varric often wondered why they all stuck around. Some of their friends, particularly Blondie and Elf, legitimately seemed to hate each other. But something about Hawke's personality was like glue to the vividly clashing colors of their paper. Maybe it was the danger that Hawke inevitably dragged them into. Maybe it was the bizarre rivalry that the two of them had going, laced with the most obvious sexual tension, whether for Hawke or each other was anyone's guess. Maybe they were both just really, really bored. For whatever reason, however, they _all_ stayed close at hand. But Varric stayed the closest.

And so he started to write. Slowly, tentatively at first, starting small, testing out the character. And to his surprise, it worked. Somehow, though all of his countless other creations had ended in failure, Hawke just _worked_. She didn't come out like him at all. She had her own personality, she had faults, she made mistakes that Varric never would have made. And he realized that it was because whatever form she found herself in, fictional or otherwise, there was no other person she could be. Hawke was just Hawke, and there was nothing that anyone, least of all Varric, could do about it. And that was exactly what he'd been looking for.

The years passed quickly by him, like a summer wind, far too fast for him, and he almost needed a moment to catch his breath. But now that he had his heroine, his tales positively bloomed. Whenever he had a free moment, whenever Hawke wasn't dragging him around on some adventure or another, Varric was writing. Sometimes the words came immediately, like he had simply commanded them to sprout out of his fingers and onto the paper. Sometimes he had to use the rather inebriated patrons of The Hanged Man as test subjects of a kind, trying to get the words just right. But in the end, they always came.

Soon, he had so many stories that he became worried about the towering stacks of paper falling and crushing him beneath their immense weight. That was when he knew he had enough. Enough for a book. By then, of course, Hawke and most of their friends had long since fled Kirkwall. Rivaini was out at sea in her spanking-new ship; Choir-Boy had run back to Starkhaven, hopefully _not_ gathering the army which he had threatened Hawke with; Junior was doing Maker knew what with the Grey Wardens; Daisy and Elf were _alive_ at the very least, but he had no idea where they actually were; Blondie was in hiding, which was one of the only smart things he had done in the whole ten years that Varric had known him.

Unfortunately, Varric realized then as he tried to organize page after page of inane ramblings into a cohesive narrative that he had _too many_ stories. Unless he wanted to write the biggest book in Thedas, some of his stories would have to go. But which ones? Some tales were axed because they were extraneous to the plot, some because they took attention away from Hawke for too long. Some he had tried _so hard_ to make work, but for whatever reason, simply couldn't fit them in.

Finally, he had got it down to a manageable size and it had been published. Varric beamed with pride as he got a first glimpse of "The Tale of the Champion" on the shelves, arranged by author under 'T', right next to "Hard in Hightown". It was a masterpiece if he'd ever seen one. But still, proud as he was, he just couldn't bear to get rid of his original manuscripts, all of those stories still strewn around his room. And now, with only those characters, mere revenants of his old friends, to keep him company, he realized just how alone he was.

It probably would have eaten him up, maybe even destroyed him, if not for the fact that that was when the Seeker had decided to show up and drag him away in chains to tell his story once again. She had changed everything. He wouldn't go back to that small room above The Hanged Man for a very long time after that, and the whole time he was gone, he couldn't help imagining someone, a stranger, coming to clean out his old haunt and tossing all of his precious babies into the trash.

The only thing he could hope for was that the stranger didn't do that. He could hope that they would pick up a page and begin to read. That his words would prevail one last time. Because if they began to read, then he had won. They'd finish that story, and then pick up another, and another. Maybe then, even if it was only in their mind, they could live once again. Maybe Hawke, himself, and all of their friends: Rivaini, Elf, Junior, Daisy, Red, Choir-Boy, and even Blondie, could meet once again…

* * *

 _I feel like I connect to Varric on a spiritual level, and in the most bizarre case of irony, he really became me throughout this chapter. But in general, I am pretty much Varric in real life. I just sit here on the sidelines, not drawing much attention to myself but secretly writing stories based on what I see. Haha. I'll see you all next week!_


	3. NOTICE

Hahaha, yeah, remember how I said I would be writing this for awhile. Well, I was, I _really_ was, but then I got an idea for this original novel. And unlike fanfic, orignal novel = possibility of getting published = money for college + fame and fortune (well, maybe not that second part, but meh). I have finished two of these oneshots that I was just far to lazy to put up, so those will be posted on here and tumblr within the next few weeks.

Expect the first chapter of the new project (working title: The One) on fictionpress (and again, on tumblr) this thursday, which... holy cats, that's tomorrow.

But I digress. I'm sure I'll need a few breaks in that big period of novel writing, because, let's be honest, occasionally I just really need to write a little oneshot in order to break up the monotony, so this is not ended yet, it just won't be updated as regularly as I initially planned. Then, of course, when DA4 comes out I'm sure I'll have a butt-ton of feels so then you'll probs see a burst of activity. But yeah, sorry about that. If you like my writing, definitely head over to fictionpress tomorrow!

See you then,

Hedgehog


	4. On Names and the Importance of Foresight

_Yes, I know, I was supposed to post the first chapter of my new original novel today, and it_ is _done, but I completely forgot about the twelve hour waiting period for posting stories when you make an account. Grr. I promise, it'll be up tomorrow. Until then, enjoy an angsty Anders oneshot._

* * *

On Names,

And the Importance of Foresight

At first, the name had been a joke, a way for the other apprentices in the Circle to goad him into talking. Anders hadn't done much of that in his first few months there. It seemed to him, however, that nothing he could do would have prevented the teasing, even if he _had_ been the most talkative apprentice in all of Thedas. Children had a tendency to belittle things that were different from themselves. A lot of _adults_ still had that problem. And if there was one thing Anders was in that Ferelden Circle, it was different.

He was a small, skinny boy from the Anderfels with light hair, light brown, almost golden eyes, and the odd habit of shuffling his feet as if ready to flee at any moment. Okay, maybe he himself wasn't really from the Anderfels, but that didn't make the slightest difference to the other apprentices. Both of his parents were, so he at the very least _looked_ foreign. And considering that the Anders were on the other side of the continent, it was safe to say that none of the apprentices had ever met someone who looked like him.

He didn't know why his parents had decided to make the trek to _Ferelden_ of all places. To tell the truth, Anders had been meaning to ask them that very question shortly before his world had turned to shit. But the next time he'd thought about it, he was so far away from them, and they wouldn't have even talked to him anyway, let alone answer a stupid, inane question like that one.

The best memories he was pretty he had were the ones of the village where he'd spent the first twelve years of his life. It had been a much simpler time, his childhood. A time when he didn't have to worry about much of anything, except maybe being home in time for supper and making sure to tie his shoe laces when his mother walked by so that she wouldn't yell at him. A time when the weather was never too hot or cold and he'd spent endless afternoons running through the forest with his friends while the cool breeze rattled the trees. It was a time when he'd _actually_ had friends.

Unfortunately for Anders, that was when the Magic came, and everything got more complicated. At first, it had revealed itself in small ways: a soap bubble that froze in midair instead of popping when he touched it, a small bruise on his knee that he could make disappear. Simple things, easy things to hide. His father had never liked magic; it made him nervous, a sort of built-in prejudice that all of the Anders shared after being enslaved by the Tevinter Imperium for a few hundred years. So Anders made extra sure to keep his Magic well hidden.

And for a while, he seemed to be succeeding. Then, there was what would be referred to in the village for many years as the "Barn Incident". Anders and a few of his friends had been horsing around in someone's barn, playing "Dragon Slayer", one of their favorite games, amidst the very flammable bales of hay. His friends knew about his Magic, sworn to secrecy as a matter of fact, so of course he had to be the dragon. Sometimes, _he_ wanted to be an adventurer instead, but even Anders had to admit that "Dragon Slayer" was much more fun with _real_ fire.

The three boys snuck around the barn, pretending to be traipsing through a dark, murky cave, while Anders waited in the loft, grinning like a maniac. He loved this part. Soon, the stalwart adventurers came near to his perch. " **Who dares disturb my slumber?** " He bellowed in the deepest voice he could muster, then waited for the inevitable reply.

"We are adventurers, come to thlay you and take your hoard for ourthelves", yelled Sean, a short, chubby boy with a bit of a lisp, brandishing his wooden sword in the air.

"Do dragons _have_ hoards?" Brandon, his words coming out in an excited slur, asked, turning to Sean and almost hitting Lucas in the head with his own play sword in the process.

"I heard they don't", said Lucas, trying to regain his cool after almost being beheaded by the toy.

Sean backhanded him. "Sthut up".

" **Enough** " Anders shouted. " **You are all fools if you think that you can ever hope to defeat me while you sit there squabbling idly with each other** ". The adventurers glared up at him in defiance. Anders laughed in the most malicious way possible, " **You will all make a tasty meal** ".

He jumped down from the loft and into a pile of hay, where his friends waited to bean the "dragon" into submission. But Anders wouldn't be taken down so easily. He emerged from the hay, spitting a few pieces of the stuff from his mouth, and then, grinning broadly, roared like the fearsome dragon he was. Putting a hand in front of his mouth, Anders willed the fire into being.

It was small—he wasn't very good at it yet—but that was all right. If the fire was any bigger, one of his friends might have gotten burned. The adventurers yelled battle plans to each other excitedly while Anders stomped around, setting fire to the air. If they had been older, maybe they would have seen just how dangerous this all was. Then again, if they had been older, they probably wouldn't have been playing in the first place. But they were only twelve, after all, so playing with fire in a wooden barn filled with hay seemed perfectly reasonable to them.

Besides, they weren't really concerned with what _could_ happen because, so far, nothing _had_ happened. So why should that change? Of course, as soon as you begin to think _that_ way, something inevitably _does_ go wrong. Maybe Anders had gotten a little _too_ into his role as the fearsome dragon, or maybe he hadn't been paying enough attention. For whatever reason, when Brandon next swung his sword at him, Anders instinctively "breathed fire" again in his direction.

Before either of them realized what had happened, Brandon's sword caught on fire, and being the excitable boy that he was, he dropped it, right onto a pile of hay. It too promptly burst into flames and spread more quickly than any of them imagined possible. The four of them looked at each other, identical looks of horror on their faces. All of them were thinking the exact same thing: "We are going to be in so much trouble".

Now, however shortsighted the boys might have been, they were certainly not stupid. As the fire began to climb up the walls and smoke began to clog the air, they ran for the exit while they could still get to it, abandoning their swords to the hungry flames.

As soon as they were out, and safe on the non-flammable dirt, Anders looked up and realized that they were in a lot more trouble than they'd originally anticipated. It seemed as if the whole town had already gathered around the barn, and several people were already rushed around with buckets filled with water. They stared at the boys, and the boys stared back at them. Anders began to turn red. This was all his fault. His friends might be grounded, but he'd surely get something much worse. He'd probably have to do extra chores for a whole month.

"Sweetheart!" Called a very frightened voice from the crowd, and Lucas' mother emerged, gasping for breath as if she'd just run a marathon. "Are you all right, baby?" She wrapped her bony arms around her son and crushed him in a loving embrace. It looked to Anders like poor Lucas couldn't breathe. After a solid minute she finally let go and turned to the rest of them as Lucas gasped for breath. "What happened in there, boys?"

The boys glanced pointedly at each other, and the signal was immediately passed between them: no one must know. They had to keep Anders' Magic a secret. None of them said anything. The silence reigned over the crowd, with only the sound of the fire sizzling as buckets of water were poured over it behind them.

"What?" Lucas' mother asked, beginning to panic. "Why won't you tell me?" Still they all remained silent. "Lucas", she demanded, turning back to him and grabbing his shoulders. She was panicking. "Tell me now or so help me I will ground you for a month". She shook him, and Anders was half-surprised that Lucas' eyes didn't pop right out of his skull. "Do you hear me?"

"It…" Lucas began quietly, shrinking under his mother's gaze.

 _No Lucas_ , Anders thought desperately, _don't do it. Don't tell_.

"It was him", he pointed as Anders, who wanted nothing more than to sink into a hole in the ground and never come out again. "He used magic".

"What?" Asked another voice, gruff and deep, from the crowd. Immediately, a hush went over the crowd as a tall, grizzled man with light hair identical to Anders' own emerged from their ranks. It was his father. Anders gulped; this was really not good. "What did you say, boy?" He asked, clearly having heard what Lucas had said but wanting to make sure that he'd heard him correctly. Anders was pretty sure that his father heard everything.

"He … he used magic", Lucas repeated, his voice breaking on the last word.

"Traitor", Brandon muttered under his breath.

"Is this true?" His father asked quietly, not without a slight waver. He turned to Anders, who now turned white. His face was just a rainbow of colors today.

Anders took in a sharp breath. "I—", he began, a million different lies running through his head. Then he paused, sighed. As his father stared him down with those intense eyes of his, he knew he couldn't lie to him. "Yes", he mumbled, looking downwards, "It's true".

His father didn't say anything for a solid minute. Anders finally looked up to meet his father's gaze, and his chest clenched in shock, for the look of terror and confusion evident on his father's face froze him to the core. Why was he looking at him like that? Like he was about to pounce and rip his throat out?

"Come on", he said slowly, calmly even, though his eyes gave him away. "We're going home". Both hesitated then, neither one moving a muscle. "I said come on, boy". Then, tensely, like the very thought of it made his skin crawl, his father grabbed Anders' arm and dragged him through the crowd.

The walk home was long and quiet. Anders was sure that this was all one of those awful nightmares where you could keep walking forever and never reach your destination. His father didn't speak, couldn't even look at him. He just stared straight ahead as he hurried through the village back to their small house, gripping Anders' arm harder than was strictly necessary. Anders felt numb. He simply didn't understand what had just happened. Why had everyone in that crowd been so scared the minute that someone had said "magic"?

The minute their cottage came into view through the trees, his father let go of his arm. "Go to your room", he mumbled, still not looking in his direction. "Don't … don't come out until you're told".

Anders opened his mouth to say something, anything, but his throat felt like it was stuffed with cotton. So he just nodded and did as he had been told. The house, modest, cluttered with things of no real importance, was empty, thank the Maker, and Anders was able to hurry through the main room and into his bedroom down the short hallway without having to look at anyone. That was all well and fine with him. He thought that he might burst into tears if he had to look at one more confused expression, which would just make everything worse. Much worse.

His bedroom was small and cramped, stuffed to the brim with clothes and keepsakes and endless, _endless_ drawings of brave knights on horses off to slay dragons and rescue pretty girls. Anders collapsed onto his bed, which was situated against the wall, underneath the slightly grimy, narrow window, and just lay there for a minute like a beached whale, trying to wrap his head around everything that had just happened.

Gradually, as he replayed the events of the last half-hour over and over again, the wheels in his head began to turn, and Anders came upon the stunning realization that he was a _mage_. He had _Magic_. He hadn't thought of it like that before. His magic had just been like a toy to him, one that he could fiddle with for a few months and then promptly forget about. But it wasn't. He would be stuck with his Magic, and all of its implications, for the rest of his life, whether he liked it or not. It hadn't seemed real until now. In fact, it had been kind of fun; breathe some fire, heal a few bruises, show off to his friends. Except now he was beginning to realize the gravity of the situation. He was a _mage_. He'd never be a normal person again. He had Magic.

 _He had Magic…_

Then, eyes widening, sitting up stock straight in bed, Anders remembered something else about mages. They didn't live just any old place willy-nilly. No, they had to be locked up in that tower on Lake Calenhad: The Circle of Magi. Before all of this, before he had Magic, some Templars had come through the village, reminding the townspeople to inform them the minute they discovered a mage, because they had to be brought to the Circle and "locked up fer their own good", as one had cackled before being backhanded by his senior officer.

Anders yanked at the blanket draped over his bed and wrapped it around himself. The Templars would come for him and take him away from his friends, his family, his _life_ , everything he'd ever known. Maybe his parents wouldn't tell. Maybe they'd just forget this whole mess had ever happened, and they could all go back to the way things had been before. But his heart sank in his chest as he realized that his father would never do that in a million years. He _hated_ mages. Despised them even. Years later, Anders would begin to understand that he had been more than a little scared of them as well.

No, the first thing he'd do would be to call the Templars. They had a fort near the village and could conceivably be there within a day,

His mother came home an hour or so later, and as he listened at the door, not daring to open it, he heard someone sobbing. His mother, no doubt. He waited then, on his bed, half-expecting her to come breezing into his room without so much as knocking, as she usually did when she came home. But it didn't happen. Anders curled the blankets tighter around himself, more and more as time went on and the sun outside his window began to set, until he had completely transformed himself into a burrito of despair.

Stupid Anders. He didn't quite know what he had expected really. That his parents would simply burst into his room and say that everything was all going to be okay as they hugged it out like the adorable family that they were? Because none of that was true, and it was certainly _not_ going to be okay. He had Magic. If he wasn't possessed by a demon he'd probably set himself on fire or fall victim to some other equally awful travesty. And that was just if he _wasn't_ sent to the Circle. He had no idea what sort of horrible fate awaited him there.

Gently, someone knocked at his door, and Anders jumped. Was it the Templars already? They were certainly speedy, Anders had to give them that. "Do…?" But no, he recognized the voice now. It was his mother, who paused then, and had to take a deep breath before continuing. Was _she_ scared of him too? "Do you want some supper, pup?" Her voice hitched, like she was trying not to cry.

"No", Anders muttered into his pillow, at this point so exhausted from all of the horrible thoughts that kept circulating through his head that he just wanted to fall asleep and not have to think anymore.

His mother certainly didn't push the issue. He heard another choked inhalation, and then she walked away.

Anders didn't cry. He was too tired and numb to cry. He simply lay there on his bed, wrapped in his little blanket burrito and prayed for sleep. Of course _that_ was never going to happen. So he stayed awake all through the night, beginning to shiver as it grew cold.

Once the sun had gone down completely, his parents began to argue. It was in quiet, hushed whispers at first, like they didn't want him to hear. But soon they forgot themselves and it got louder and louder, till Anders could make out most of what was being said.

"…Just a boy", his mother, trying to be strong, trying to stop her voice from shaking. "He's _your_ son, have you forgotten _that_?"

"That … That _thing_ ", his father spat, and the word pierced Anders' chest like an arrow, "Is not my son. That is a mage, and we need to get rid of it before it kills us both".

"Are you listening to yourself?"

"Yes", said his father, quieter now, "And I know what must be done".

* * *

The Templars came for him the next day. He must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing he knew, the pale, mid-morning light was streaming through his window. Pausing, Anders wondered for just a moment if it had all been some nasty kind of nightmare. But no, as much as he wished it had, he knew that everything that had happened yesterday was completely real.

Rain pattered on the roof over his head as he yawned and rubbed his tired eyes. The weather seeming to be doing its best to match his mood. Perfect.

Suddenly, a fierce knocking came at his door, and Anders jumped at the sudden noise. That certainly wasn't his mother, and even his father, brash as he was, didn't bang _that_ hard. So who was on the other side of—?

He got his answer as the door was violently shoved open without waiting for a response of any kind. Anders sat, huddled on the small bed, eyes wide, as the Templars marched into his bedroom. There were three of them, big men with stern faces, made even bigger by their iron chest plates with the symbol of the Templar order seemingly burned into the center.

"Is this him?" one of them asked, and his father, who appeared in the doorway after them, nodded solemnly. The Templar motioned for another one of them, much younger than the others, to come to his side. "Recruit", he prompted, and the Recruit, who couldn't have been much older than Anders himself, produced a pair of iron manacles from Maker knew where.

"Your hands, mage", the Templar said, quietly, but not without a distinctive undertone of malice. Anders hesitated. His tired mind honestly had no idea what was happening. "Now!" He shouted, and Anders stuck his hands out. His mother, now standing beside his father, buried her head in his chest as if she couldn't bear to look. Even his father looked a little concerned. The Recruit locked the manacles in place around his wrists, and Anders couldn't help noticing that he shook slightly. Was he as scared as Anders? Was he scared _of_ Anders?

A chain, also made of iron links, was attached to the manacles, and the Recruit handed it to his Senior, who tugged at it slightly, jerking Anders off of the bed as his hands were dragged with it. He heard a choked cry as his mother began to sob, but he couldn't look at her. If he did then _his_ tear ducts would begin to flow and he would _not_ cry. He wouldn't let these Templars see weakness.

As the Senior dragged him out of his room, he heard the third Templar muttering to his parents. "You did the right thing".

They basically paraded him through the streets of the village. At least, that's what it was like for Anders; a very sick, twisted parade. It seemed as if everyone in the village, all of his neighbors, his friends, were watching him as the rain soaked through his thin shirt. No one said anything as he was dragged through the mud, but he could see the word on their lips: Mage. Demon. To them, it was all the same.

And there were his friends: Sean, Brandon, Lucas. It seemed like their innocent game in the barn had been an infinity away. Lucas couldn't look at him, couldn't watch his friend being humiliated because of something he had said. At least, that's what Anders hoped he was thinking. Sean looked about ready to burst through the crowd and free him himself, but a hand on his shoulder from a parent stopped him.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of sludging through the mud and rain, getting dragged by his wrists through a crowd who looked like they wanted to stone him to death, they reached a wooden cart, hitched up to a black horse. The Senior pushed him upwards roughly, into the back, which jolted under him as he regained his balance. He then gestured to the Recruit, who jumped up as well and attached his chain to a hook.

What ensued were several days of hard riding over bumpy roads, mostly in the rain, which seemed unlikely to stop anytime soon. For Anders, much of that first day was spent trying not to barf from the ever present mess of rocks and foliage which seemed to take malevolent glee in placing themselves directly under the wheels of the cart. He was soaked, sick to his stomach, and utterly miserable. All in all, it was not a good first impression of the Templars, and it was one that would stick in his mind for a very long time.

The two senior Templars were in the front of the cart with their backs to Anders, clearly trying to stay as far away from him as possible, but the Recruit chose—or was forced, more likely—to sit across from him in the back. One of his legs bounced nervously, and he seemed to be looking anywhere _but_ at Anders. It was awkward to say the least. At first, Anders hadn't really cared much, mostly because he was more concerned with trying not to panic, but after he had thoroughly exhausted _that_ train of thought, so much so that his head began to hurt, he desperately needed a distraction from his increasingly distressing internal monologue.

"So … do you have a name?" He asked the Recruit, surprised at how steady his own voice was. The Recruit didn't seem to hear him, too busy staring back the way they had come. Either that, or he was very good at ignoring people. "Oi", Anders repeated, and the Recruit jolted, realizing that he was being addressed.

"What?" He asked, sounding a little panicked as his voice cracked.

"I asked if you had a name", said Anders, "Or is it just 'Recruit'?" Ah humor, his very favorite defense mechanism. It certainly hadn't ever let him down, and this moment was no exception.

The Recruit looked uncomfortable. "I … I'm not supposed to talk to you".

"Really?" Anders tilted his head, the false bravado slowly becoming more real. "What, have they told you that I can control your mind just by talking to you?"

Turning slightly pink, the Recruit smiled a little. "Maybe".

Anders snorted, unable to help himself. It felt good to laugh, to have a small reprieve from the biting fear that would most likely return very soon. "I'm sorry", he said, "But that's really funny".

"You know", said the Recruit, thinking about it, "It kind of is". There was silence for a while more, but it was a little less awkward this time. "Oh!" said the Recruit suddenly, remembering something. "Cullen".

"What?"

"You asked me my name. It's Cullen".

But the senior Templars must have heard them talking, for one of them turned around and gave Cullen a look that could have frozen lava. He gulped, glowing hopelessly red. Well, _that_ conversation ended quickly. Time for Anders to go back to wallowing in panic and confusion, which both began to return as his mind grew idle once more.

It stopped raining the next day, thank the Maker, but it was still overcast and gloomy. This certainly didn't brighten Anders' first impression of the tower at all. As they grew closer to their final destination, he caught a glimpse of it through the trees a mile away, and began to shiver. It was huge and foreboding, stretching upwards into the sky like it wanted to squash him into the dirt as if he were some little insect.

The view certainly wasn't improved as the cart reached the edge of the lake. Cullen stood and unhooked Anders' chain from the cart, handing it once again to the Senior, who yanked at him roughly to make sure it hadn't rusted in the rain. But Anders barely noticed. He couldn't take his eyes off of the impossibly tall tower just across the lake.

It _was_ a prison, there was absolutely no doubt about that. Sure, it masqueraded itself as a school, a place of learning, but the fact that it was situated smack-dab in the middle of the largest lake in Ferelden kind of gave it away. The seeming lack of windows didn't help its case either. Sure, there were a few of them, but they were small, narrow, almost too small for a person to be able to crawl out of them. As he was shoved roughly into a tiny rowboat, Anders realized that once he had been inside long enough, he'd probably have no idea what time it actually was on the outside.

That's when it really hit him: Once he was in the Circle, he might never leave it. He'd heard stories of mages who lived out their entire lives there. Anders shuttered just thinking about it. It certainly didn't help that he was claustrophobic either. Talk about a prison! He began to panic, thinking of being stuck in a small, dark space like that tower for Maker knew how long. But he took a deep breath, and vowed to himself right then and there that he would _not_ rot in the Circle. No way, no how. He would get out, he would find a way home. That was the first time he thought about escape.

His first week in the Circle was probably one of the most disorienting and petrifying that he had ever experienced. First, he _was_ stuck in a small, enclosed space, which, to a boy used to the open air, especially one such as Anders, was highly panic-inducing. Then there was the fact that he was completely amongst strangers. He was all alone, with no one to talk to or ask where he was going or what he was supposed to do.

Then, of course, there was the matter of his phylactery. He made a note that if _he_ was ever in a position of authority to never make a poor kid go through _that_ process on their very first day. The Templars led him to a small, candle-lit room, and forced him to sit down in a hard chair. An older, hard-looking man with a rather impressive beard swept into the room, and asked the Templars a few questions while Anders shivered under their gazes. Then the Templars left, and Anders was alone with the man.

The man introduced himself as Senior Enchanter Irving, and knelt in front of him, saying something about "This not hurting at all". Then, without so much as telling him what he was about to do, Irving stuck a needle into Anders' arm and drew some of his blood into a glass jar. The suddenness and pain of it almost made Anders faint.

"Why did you do that?" He demanded, after it was all over and he had calmed down.

"This", said Irving, holding up the blood in the jar, "Is your phylactery. You're a very special boy, and we need to be able to find you if you get lost. That's what this does".

Ha. Special his arse. That phyli…physo… whatever the hell it was, was really just a leash they could yank on if he tried to escape. Anders had to resist the very potent reflex to reach up and smash the jar before Irving could take it away. But he didn't. Something stopped him. Fear maybe.

And to top it all off, after _that_ nightmare had ended, there were also the other apprentices that Anders was supposed to get to know. Of course, he avoided this as much as possible. He wasn't going to be there long, anyway. Phylactery be damned, he was going to get out of here. So what was the point of meeting anyone? But of course, the fact that he looked different drew the attention of the other apprentices. And he was certainly that, especially compared to the dark-haired, hearty Ferelden children. He was even smaller than a few of the elves, which was saying something. Word quickly spread—though he honestly had no idea how—that he was from the Anderfels. So, of course, being sheltered in the Circle as they were, the apprentices took to bombarding him with questions about that strange, foreign land.

"What are the Anderfels like?"

"I've heard that there are no trees!"

"Are they really as awful as we've heard?"

Of course, Anders had never actually _been_ to the Anderfels, but he was exhausted, and confused, and missing home more than he'd like to admit. To put it simply, he wasn't in the mood to correct them. So he'd just shrug his shoulders and produce some vague, non-comittal answer in two words or less. "Boring. Mostly rocks. Yes", and that seemed to satisfy them.

Then there was the nickname. It had been a joke at first, mostly stemming from the fact that hardly anyone knew his actual name. He'd never given it out, and no one had ever asked. But it didn't enter the Circle's common vocabulary until the day that some Enchanter or other had been telling the apprentices about the blights, more specifically about the founding of the Grey Wardens, which had, of course, occurred in the Anderfels. The Enchanter turned to him, maybe trying to get him to participate. "You there", he said, "You're from the Anders, aren't you?"

Right away, not missing a beat, one of the older, possibly slightly meaner apprentices chimed in: "Yeah, Ander, tell us about the Anders", and that had simply been that. No matter what he said or did, no one would call him anything else. After a while, he just kind of accepted it.

But it wasn't until a few months into being imprisoned that he really _became_ the nickname. Life at the Circle wasn't pleasant, to say the least. He never stopped thinking of it as a prison. This might have been because he had been older than most when his magic had been discovered. He had seen too much of life on the Outside, and it was a lot harder for him to get used to the quietness, the _tension_ that pervaded the whole of the tower between the Templars and their charges.

He didn't talk much, and made few friends. It seemed to him that all of the other apprentices were too _complacent_. They simply accepted their fates as prisoners for the rest of their natural lives. But not Anders. He couldn't accept it. He wanted, no, _needed_ to get back Outside under the sun and in the fresh air, to feel the wind and rain on his skin again. The thought of escape was the only thing that kept him sane.

This very thought was so prevalent in his mind, and Anders often found himself so distracted with developing ways of Getting Out that he developed a tendency to not pay much attention to where he was going, so often bumped into things. On this particular day, he had been wondering about the odds of his survival if he dived into the lake from one of the few windows big enough to fit through, which was located on this very high level of the tower. So enraptured in his conjecture was he that he barely noticed running head first into someone. He was just about to mumble "sorry" and keep walking, except then he caught sight of the downwards facing sword imprinted on the person's chest plate and flinched. A Templar.

Anders looked up, about to give a more adequate apology, when he realized that it was the Recruit, the one who'd ridden in the back of the cart with him on his way to the tower. What was his name? Cullen, that was it. "Oh, hello", said Anders, about to duck and go on his way, but Cullen stopped him with a heavily-armored hand.

"Hey", he said, "I know we're not supposed to talk and all, but I've been wondering something".

"What is it?"

"Back in the cart, you never told me your name", said Cullen, looking vaguely amused at Anders' nervousness.

"What does it matter?" Asked Anders, about ready to dash.

"Well, I told you mine, didn't I?"

Anders shrugged. "Fair enough. It's—"

But he paused, for just half a second, as he realized that he didn't know how he was going to respond. He hadn't heard anyone speak his _real_ name in so long, not since he'd gotten to the Circle, that it almost seemed like it belonged to someone else entirely, some other little boy who'd thought Magic was fun, a game even, just like Dragon Slayer. He wasn't that boy anymore.

He smiled then, oddly enough, suddenly feeling a weight lifting from his shoulders.

"It's Anders".

* * *

 _I know, I know, something has to go. It's gotten way too long, even I can admit that. But I almost feel like the big twist in the third act seems a little out of nowhere without this background…_

 _I don't know. Maybe I'll make it shorter, cut out some of the earlier details? I'll think about it._

 _-V_

* * *

 _Yes, that last bit is Varric's notes to someone. His publisher maybe? Bianca? Not exactly sure. I'll think about it..._

 _The prologue of "The One" will be up on fictionpress tomorrow under "fantasy". Be sure to check it out!_


End file.
